Well, it happened. Again. I woke up with whiplash. Nah, I wasn’t in a car wreck. I didn’t slip on the ice. It was, predictably, the result of mild head banging. In the spirit of full disclosure, I will say that this occurs with the frequency of say, a partial lunar eclipse. I mean, it’s not happening every week, but I can expect it a few times a year. Why? Because I don’t learn.
But I’m tired of hiding this from the world. Of mumbling, oh, I must have pulled something chopping wood, or, mmm, slept on it funny… No, no longer. My neck feels like it was wrung because I got a little over zealous with my dance moves. When I was alone. When I was dancing by myself (I can’t in good faith count the dog, who was technically present, but mostly safely ensconced under the table), possibly less-than-fully-clad, in the mostly dark, for several hours.
Look, I don’t get as much exercise as I once did. I’m not currently getting paid to walk up mountains for miles in the rain, or hammer nails, or move rocks. And anyway, it feels like we get about four hours of daylight these days, and I’m not a gym person. It’s only natural that this build-up of energy must inevitably burst forth in song and crunk. I’m not ashamed. But, I wouldn’t say no to a neck rub.
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